


Want

by MollyC



Category: Supernatural
Genre: "Top" and "dom" are not synonyms, Barebacking, D/s themes, M/M, Orgasm Control, Sex, early season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyC/pseuds/MollyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is going to teach Cas to <em>want things</em>, damnit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want

This is new, and I am anxious.

Not about the fornication.  That has never made me anxious, not even the first time, when he turned to me in his car and said he would not be forsworn and kissed me; I was only surprised, as I hadn't known his desire was strong enough to overcome his society’s foolish notion that our Father cares in the least about the sexes of those who choose to come together for love.  (I knew he desired me.  Dean is many things, but subtle is rarely one of them, and he has told me many times since that my vessel’s form is pleasing.)  Had I known what the sensations were like, I might have worried, but I didn’t, and by the time I realized I couldn’t think clearly enough to care.

I knew what to do even then; I’ve observed humanity for its entire existence.  Besides, it’s a merely physical skill.  I am a quick student, and Dean is a good teacher.  It was difficult, at first, to remember what I was doing when he was so carefully destroying my concentration, but I persisted.  I’ve been told I’m stubborn.

That first time contained the seeds of this, I think.  I don’t remember it as an angel would, but as a human does, in flashes and impressions; I remember lying on Dean’s makeshift bed in the abandoned house he’d chosen as shelter, close to an edge I didn’t understand, my vessel tight as a bowstring as he stroked me and whispered in my ear.  I remember he said many things that made me moan, that made the tension greater, but I couldn’t…I couldn’t, and I told him that, said _I can’t_ , over and over, _Please Dean I can’t_ , and finally he said, “Look at me,” and I opened my eyes—I hadn’t known they were closed—to meet his, and he said, “You can.  Come on now, Cas, come for me,” and I _fell_ , and I know I cried out but I don’t recall what I said, if I said any words at all.  And the next words I understood were _So good_ , and I shuddered, and he sounded amused when he asked, “You like it when I say that?” and I said yes.

Every time since, it’s been the same.  I reach that edge, and I stand on it, but I can’t fall over it without Dean’s voice.  It’s not always the same words, _Come for me_ , but always I need his voice telling me it's time.  Eventually he noticed.  When he asked me about it, he was red-faced, nearly stammering in embarrassment.  I told him he was correct, and I thought that was the end of it.  Until this evening.  I didn’t know what “kinky” meant, but it’s been explained.

(I don’t think this is what Sam meant when he told me I shouldn’t let Dean push me into things I wasn’t ready for.  This happened perhaps a week after they reunited, and Sam waited until Dean had left to get their dinner before he broached the subject.  I found his concern for me touching, but I will admit to being confused when he said that if I hurt Dean he would beat me to death with a shovel.  He laughed when I pointed out that a shovel wouldn’t harm me, and replied that a vague disclaimer was nobody’s friend.)

Dean insisted that I have a word to say if I need to be released, despite my assurances that I will not need it.  The handcuffs are his.  I can’t break them, because when he asked me if I could I took them and etched them with runes that have my name worked into their pattern, and now the metal is proof against my strength.  Dean looked very surprised when I gave them back to him and told him what I'd done.  They hold my hands behind my back.  I can’t _touch_ him; I can only arch into his hands when he touches me.

Right now he isn't touching me.  I know where he is; my eyes are covered, but I can hear his feet on the carpet.  I could perceive him with other senses, the senses humans don't have (I still have that much of myself, even as I'm losing my Grace in pieces), but I think that would be...cheating.  This is a matter of human bodies, so I kneel here, and listen to him circle me, and tuck away all the senses that a human can't use.

“Tell me what you want, Cas,” Dean says, and it's an order.  He learned that tone from his father, though I doubt John Winchester ever imagined it being used in circumstances like these.  I would answer him, but...I don't know.  I don't know what I want, other than to please him.  I'm falling, but I haven't fallen yet, and want is a human thing and I don't know how to say the things I need to tell him.  I shake my head, turning my blind face to him.  “Is that won't or can't?” he asks, and my mouth is dry when I reply, “Can't.  I can't, Dean, I don't know.”

“You say that a lot,” he says thoughtfully, and moves close to me.  He kneels at my side and when he speaks his words ghost over my ear.  “Think by now you'd have some things you like.”

“Yes,” I say, “Yes, I do.”  We've done this often enough for that; I have _preferences_ , which I should not.  I shouldn't allow it at all, but I do, because it means I'm not alone here, and if I'm destined to end my existence in this vessel I will at least enjoy what pleasures it can bring.  Iniquity is...one of the perks.

Dean isn't touching me; close enough to feel the heat of his body on my bare skin, but not touching.  “Well?”  I don't understand.  I sway towards his heat without really intending to move, and for a second I can feel the fabric of his shirt against my arm before he backs away.  “Stop it, Cas.  You have to tell me what you want or I'm not giving it to you.”  He pauses and says, “If you don't know what you want, tell me something you like.”

What I would say is _You_ but I think he means something more specific.  “Just, please, touch me,” I say, and my hands pull against the cuffs with the thwarted desire to reach for him.

“Where?” he asks, and it's all I can do not to whine in frustration.  Doesn't he understand that I don't _care_?  “Where, Cas?” he repeats.  He sounds like he's smiling.

“Anywhere,” I say.  “Anywhere, please.”

“Oh, you're gonna regret that,” Dean murmurs, but I don't agree.

His hand is rough with callus but the touch is gentle when he rests it on my shoulder and smooths it down across the plane of my back.  I can feel the skin shivering and I let it; I could control the reaction as I could control everything this body does, but I'm being human so I don't.  At the small of my back his hand stops and rests, just above my bound wrists.

“Is that what you want?” he asks.  I think he expects me to say no; I am erect, and Dean is straightforward in his own desires.  It wouldn't occur to him to be satisfied with such a simple touch, so far from where he would want it.

“I said anywhere,” I tell him. “I mean what I say.”

He chuckles and says,“You don't have to get pissy about it.  Fuck, Cas, do you have any idea how hot you are like this?”  (I don't understand what temperature has to do with sexual attraction, but I've heard the sentiment often enough now to know it's meant as a compliment.  And I have, at least, convinced him not to use the word “God” when we're having sex.)

“Dean, please,” I say, my voice veering dangerously close to a whine.

“OK, OK, I get it,” Dean says.  His right hand stays where it is, warm on my skin in the cool air of the room; with his left he turns my head so he can kiss me, his tongue dragging over mine, and I whimper into his mouth.  He's smiling, I can feel it against my lips.  “This is fun,” he says, teasing.  “Usually you're so grabby.”

It's only because I hear the clink of the chain that I realize I'm testing the handcuffs again.  I made sure myself that they'll hold me; it's irrational to fight them.  I can't entirely help it.  “I like to touch you,” I tell him, and he laughs again.

“I'm getting that,” he says.  His hand drifts down my chest and I hiss when it brushes over my nipple.  Apparently mine are more sensitive than is usual for a man; Dean's aren't, as much.  “And you like it when I touch you, too, right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” I say.  I don't understand why he insists on reiterating what I've already said.  “Yes, Dean.”  I can tell where he is because he's so close, and it's trivial and satisfying to lean into him enough that I can kiss him.  His hands and his lips and his chest pressed against my arm; it's almost enough.

“OK, these are the rules,” Dean says, leaning back a little.  “I’ll do whatever you want—whatever you _like_ —but you have to tell me.”  I turn that over in my mind for long enough that he continues, “Do you understand what I mean, Cas?”

“Yes,” I say reluctantly.  This is going to be very frustrating.

In fact it's frustrating immediately, when he lifts his hands from my skin and shuffles back, away from me.  “Tell me what you want,” he says.  I grope for an answer, already missing the feeling of his skin on mine, and Dean chuckles.  “What’s it gonna be, boy?” he says, with the lilt in his tone that tells me he’s making a reference I don’t understand.  “Like the lady said, I can wait all night.”

I frown and tell him, “You can’t wait all night.”  The budget did not stretch to separate rooms, and the coffee shop Sam has gone to will close in a few hours.

“Well then you better get a move on,” he says, complacent.

I don’t think I sound desirous when I say, “Take your clothes off,” but Dean seems pleased nonetheless.

“You got it,” he says.  I listen to the rustle as he disrobes, slower than I would like, though he doesn’t seem to be idling about it.  When he’s done, the room is quiet again, and I wait for several seconds before I remember that he isn’t going to move until I tell him to.  It takes me a moment to identify the source of my dissatisfaction.

“Why am I on the floor?” I ask.

I can all but see the shrug.  “You look hot that way.”

“I would rather be on the bed.”

Dean hesitates for a bare moment before he mutters “Close enough.”  I could stand on my own with little effort, but Dean bends to help me up and I enjoy his hands on my arms.  We don’t stagger taking the few steps to the bed; my balance doesn’t depend on my sight, and Dean is well-used to supporting another person as he walks.  “Here, sit,” he says, and I do.  The blanket that covers the bed is a little rough, but I don’t care.  It’s not as if I am susceptible to “rug burn”.

“What now?” Dean says.

“Dean,” I say.

“It doesn’t have to be complicated, Cas.  Come on, you can think of something.”

“Come here and kiss me,” I say, and I think I sound angry but if so Dean chooses to ignore it.  “See, now we’re getting somewhere,” he says.  “Move a little.”  It’s awkward to change position without the use of my arms, but Dean arranges me against the wall at the head of the bed.  The posture puts pressure on my wrists and I take a moment to ensure that the blood flow to my hands won’t be interrupted as Dean swings his leg over mine and settles into my lap.  His penis presses into my stomach as he leans forward, one hand wrapping around the back of my neck.  I have to tilt my head up to meet the kiss.

I feel surrounded, pinned by Dean’s weight.  He is broader and heavier than my vessel is, than I am; though James Novak was tall, he was lightly built.  If I were really human, I would be trapped, without enough leverage to shove him away, and the mere fact that I let him bind me here is enough to make my hips buck up, outside of my conscious control.  “Mmmm,” Dean says, pulling back.  “What did you just think?”

“What do you mean?”  It takes a moment to assemble the question.  He’s moving a little, tiny circles grinding down into me.

“You just thought of something hot, and I wanna know what it was so I can do it again,” Dean says patiently.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.  I shouldn’t let you, Dean.”

“Shouldn’t let me what?”

“No mortal should have so much power over an angel,” I say.  It’s not as coherent as I might like, but Dean seems to understand.

“Come on,” he says, amused.  “Just because I didn’t want you to wreck my cuffs--”

“ _I can’t leave_ ,” I say, the sharp tone ruined by the way my breath catches.

Dean stills and I have to stifle a small noise of disappointment.  He doesn’t respond for a long moment, and I wish I could see him; I am hardly an expert at reading human facial expressions, but I know Dean’s better than most.

At last he says, slowly, “I thought you made them so you couldn’t break them.”

“I did.”

“Cas, are you...do they hurt you?”  He sounds strange, and I can’t tell if the emotion in his voice is anger or fear. He’s suddenly tense; I can feel it everywhere we touch.

“Of course not,” I say, baffled, and he eases just a bit.  “I could...’mojo’ the latch if necessary.  But the only way to make such a mortal implement strong enough to hold me was to make it _hold_ me.”

There’s another long pause before he says, “You don’t do anything small, do you?”

I’m not sure how to reply, so I don’t.  We sit there in silence a little longer.  My arousal is not diminishing, and neither is Dean’s.  Finally he says, “And you like it.  You like that you can’t just fly away?”

Didn’t I just say that?  “Yes,” I tell him.

Dean blows out all his air in a long sigh that ends in, “...OK then.  Angels are into bondage.  I’ll make a note.”

“Dean,” I begin.  He stops me by kissing me again, harder this time, biting at my lower lip.

“Tell me what you want, Cas,” he mumbles into my lips.  “Tell me something you want.”

“Your mouth,” I say.  “Put your mouth on my cock.”  I remember just in time not to say _penis_ , as that is apparently not correct in this context.

Being human is exhausting.

Dean laughs and says, “Cas, say _I want you to blow me_.”

“I want you to blow me,” I repeat, and I am beginning to be exasperated.  But Dean doesn’t seem to care.

“Have I mentioned lately how hot you are when you wanna smite something?” he says, and kisses me again, long and lingering, and then he pulls away.  The blanket rustles as he moves and he trails one hand down the center of my chest.  I arch into it, gasping when he wraps his fingers around my penis.  He bends and blows a warm breath over the head.

“Dean,” I say, shuddering.

“I’m getting there,” he says.  He’s laughing at me again, I can hear it in his voice, but then his lips close around my penis and I _do not care_.  This is something only mortals have, and no matter what the Guides insinuated when they took me back to Heaven, it’s not what I rebelled for--not what I’m falling for--but it is something _good_.

“Oh,” I say, and my voice sounds strange.

Dean chuckles.  The feeling of it makes me writhe against my pillows.  He sits up just enough to speak.  “You always sound so surprised,” he says, fond.  Before I can object he bends again and this time he slides down, as far as he can go without gagging, and I give up trying to talk.

I don’t pay attention to how long he stays there.  I could mark each microsecond as it passes, but it’s more pleasant to ignore everything that is not Dean’s mouth, hot around my erection; his tongue, running up and down the length; the soft sounds he makes.  I let my hips hitch and he presses his forearm across my stomach to make me stop.  I let the pleasure build, let it burn through me until I’m panting, _Dean, Dean_ , over and over, my head thrown back against the wall; under their blindfold my eyes are squeezed shut, and I know what my brothers and sisters would say if they could see me, but they don't understand this, have never been allowed to.

And then, he _stops_.

I make a wild, wordless noise, and Dean slides back up my body until he’s sitting in my lap again.  He drapes his arms around my neck and my hands jerk against the cuffs.  “OK, Cas, time for the final round,” he murmurs.  “Think about this one.  Think about it _hard_ , if you know what I mean.  Because you only get to come if I like what I hear.”

The worrying thing is that I’m sure he means it.  I’m not thinking clearly and I know it, and I could make it easier, but that would be inhuman.

“Dean,” I say.

“Good start,” Dean says.  “You need a countdown?  Will that help?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Ten,” Dean says calmly.  “Nine.”

“Dean, please.”

“Please what, Cas?  Eight.”

I have no idea what to say.  “Seven,” Dean says.

“Dean, will you let me—”

“Wrong.  You’re smarter than this.  Six.”

I grope for words.  None come to me.  “Five.  Really, you’re really gonna do this?  It’s not that hard.  Four.”

“I need—”

“ _Wrong_ ,” Dean says.  “You’re runnin’ out of numbers here, Cas.  Three.”

I can’t _think_ , but if need is wrong…

Dean says, “Two,” and I take a deep breath and say, “Dean, I want to fuck you.”

There’s a long pause—or it might be only a second, but I’m not keeping track—and Dean’s voice is full of satisfaction when he says, “See, I knew you could do it.”

There is no possible response to that.

He shifts, taking his weight off me, and I want, I _want_ it back, and I still can’t reach for him.  “Might take a while,” he says conversationally.  “You got your fun tricks but I have to do it the old fashioned way.  Be so much easier if you wanted me to fuck you.  You OK with waiting?”

“Yes,” I say.  I’m not, but there isn’t any choice.  Human bodies are too fragile to do otherwise.

“You’re lying,” he says.  “But that’s OK, because you don’t have to.”

I’m still trying to work out what that means when Dean smooths a slick hand down over my erection, steadies it, and lowers himself.  He doesn’t go fast, and there is more resistance than I’m happy with, but there’s no pain in the low moan he makes.  When he’s settled, he leans to speak in my ear.  “I had a feeling,” he says, his voice thick with lust.  “So I had a little extra time after Sammy took off, spent a few minutes getting ready.”

A few months ago that would have meant nothing to me, but now I can picture it, Dean lying on his bed, on _this_ bed, opening himself for me, and I groan with the effort of not moving.  He laughs, breathlessly, and says, “Start slow, OK?  Took a little longer than I was expecting to get to the good part.”

And here I’m glad that I’m not human, because Dean is not a small man; without the strength my Grace gives me, I couldn’t do what he wants, what I want.  I would tire too quickly, and neither of us would have time, or Dean would have to do all the work.  As it is, it becomes obvious quickly that I need my hands free, though it’s almost more concentration than I can muster to open the latch on one of the handcuffs.  I think Dean’s a little startled when I sit up and take him by the waist, but he doesn’t complain.

I start slow, as requested, drawing out the thrusts.  Soon he’s relaxing, and I can go faster without risk of hurting him.  His breath is quick and shallow and he slips a hand between us to stroke his own erection.  He swivels his hips and it makes both of us choke.  “Oh yeah, like that,” he pants.  “You like it?  You want it like this?”

“Yes.  Yes, Dean, Dean, I want to see you, please—”

He chuckles again, dark and low, and says, “That isn’t gonna work forever, just so you know,” but he drags the blindfold from my eyes and throws it heedlessly aside.  He’s flushed, his eyes half-lidded, and I have seen more beautiful things, but none that were mortal.  

I don’t say that aloud.  He wouldn’t believe me.

I hold him just far enough away that he can focus, and I can see it when his eyes try to close.  “Cas,” he says.  “Cas, come on, come on, you can do it.”  His orgasm is close, I can feel it.

“Dean,” I say helplessly, “please.”  It would take so much effort to construct a more eloquent sentence, and he seems to understand.

“Do you need me to tell you?” Dean asks.  I nod.  “Then tell me you want it.”

“I want, Dean, I want to come, _please_ —”

“Come for me,” Dean says.  “ _Now_.”  

It’s the sharp crack of an order in his voice that pushes me over the edge.  It sweeps through me like fire and I can’t pay attention to anything else for a long, timeless time.  When I come back to myself I discover that I’m leaning on Dean, my face buried in the side of his throat.  He’s panting, and our stomachs are wet.  I’m mildly disappointed that I missed his orgasm.  

“That was pleasurable,” I say, when I feel more like talking.

“You sure know how to stroke a guy’s ego,” Dean says, but I don’t think he’s really upset.  We rest against each other, breathing together, for a few pleasant minutes before he sighs.  “Can you clean up before you go?  Sam’ll bitch if he can, you know, smell anything.”  He lifts himself up and shifts away to sit cross-legged on the bed next to me, moving like he's tired but not injured.  It's a small relief; I can't heal him anymore, and it would be all too easy for me to damage him.

I touch his shoulder and spend the trivial effort to remove the sweat and semen that worries him, resisting the desire to leave my hand there, to smooth it over his skin.  “Your brother knows that we...do this,” I say, and Dean shrugs.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he wants the hard evidence shoved in his face.”

I stand, slowly.  For a moment I allow myself to feel the pleasant aches of having pushed my vessel’s limits.  I even removed my clothes by hand, but I put them back on with a flicker of will and banish my physical fatigue at the same time.

“I kinda love watching you do that,” Dean comments, and I turn my head to look at him.  He’s still naked and shows no sign of wishing to move.  The tube of lubricant that he used lies open at the foot of the bed.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I say.   My search is still fruitless, but I have to follow every clue, no matter how tenuous, if I'm to have any hope at all of finding my Father.  For that matter, I shouldn't spend the time on evenings like this.

“Check in, OK?”

I don't care for the cellular phone he gave me, but it's a reasonable request.  “I will.”

I hesitate, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say, and I’m spreading my wings when Dean says, “Be careful, Cas.”

He looks unexpectedly solemn, and I incline my head in agreement before I take flight.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Sam got into Buffy fandom at Stanford, courtesy of Jess  
> \- Dean would deny unto death that he knows "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" by heart


End file.
